24. Breathe – Colleen Farrell
Breathing is central not just to our physical well being, but to our emotional and spiritual wellbeing.
Breathing is on my mind a lot lately. As a doctor caring for patients with Covid-19, every day I see people struggling to breathe. I witness how the virus prevents the oxygen in our air from being delivered to their bodies. My team and I do everything we can to help our patients breathe freely again. Sometimes those patients end up being one of our own. Just last week, we lost beloved nurse Ernesto DeLeon, who died here at Bellevue Hospital.
Breathing is central not just to our physical well being, but to our emotional and spiritual wellbeing. When we are scared, anxious, or stressed, our breaths become shallow and tight.
Breathing connects us to nature. We take in the oxygen released from the trees and exhale carbon dioxide into the environment. The trees use that carbon dioxide to grow, and in turn generate oxygen for us. Our breath connects us to our planet and to each other.
Breathing is also a question of justice. In certain parts of the world, including within my city of New York, the air is polluted and suffocating. Eric Garner's final words, before he died in the hands of police, were "I can't breathe." To live freely, we must be able to breathe freely.
– Colleen Farrell
Prompt:
Because breathing is essential for life, it touches every part of our existence. What does it mean to you to breathe? When was the last time you really noticed your breath? What were you doing? Was there ever a time when you realized you had taken your breath for granted?
Abbey Dias
Location: Seattle, Washington
About: I am a 2020 graduate and have spent my whole life in Washington by the ocean. I learned to scuba dive in college and my life has not been the same since! While locked inside my house for the last few months, I have wanted nothing more than to be able to jump back into the ocean.
Age: 22
Existing in a Breathless World.
If anything, the pandemic has taught most of us not to take our daily lives for granted. Stopping to chat with friends, spending late nights studying in the library, eating at a restaurant, and going to school are just a few. And whether you are immunocompromised, have contracted the virus yourself, or avidly avoided the plague with decorated and fashionable masks that cover your face, we have all been forced to think about our breathing. It is a simple, yet essential act that most of us healthy folks have the luxury of taking for granted. We breathe without thinking, but we also have the autonomy to change and control our breath, too.
I will admit that I take breathing for granted. In fact, I often wish that I did not have to breathe. There is much fear that surrounds the inability to breathe, and rightfully so when breath is abruptly taken from us. But there can also be beauty in existing without breath, when it’s your own decision.
I dream of the ocean. Her largeness and wildness, a depth so deep I can’t even grasp. I dream of floating—in silence and solitude. I dream of shades of blue that reflect the sunlight on my eyes, tears on my face, and passion in my heart. Sometimes I find myself taking an extra long breath, as if to prepare my body for a deep dive. Down I go, at first, it’s light and creatures spectate. I descend into darkness. I can’t see what’s below me, but I am not afraid. I continue swimming until my lungs feel like they will burst, then I keep swimming some more. I hope to get as close to the center of the earth as possible, then I pause. Finally, there’s silence from my body. I am surrounded both by life and nothing at all. Reality starts to interrupt my thoughts—you can’t stay here. I wasn’t built for this, but perhaps that’s why I am drawn to it. Reluctantly, I begin my ascent, following the bubbles as they escape from my mouth. I crawl back into the light, and can almost taste the noise of the sun. As I push through the surface I am met with sweet relief and disappointment all at once. I am surrounded by my life source, but it was from this that I wanted to escape. Not forever, just for a moment. Just so I could feel once again.
Photo by Abbey Dias, under the surface at Whidbey Island, Washington
Alejandra Redondo
Location: Mexico City
About: A very special prompt. I reflect on the value of breathing throughout my life, how I need to breathe for everything I love, how devastating it is when it stops for someone you love. How we keep breathing and we sometimes take it for granted.
Age: 30
Respirar. Es prácticamente todo y ¿cada cuánto le ponemos atención?
De chica estaba muy consciente de respirar cuando sacaba la cabeza del agua para tomar una bocanada y seguir nadando. Cuando jugábamos en la alberca con mi papá quién aguantaba más tiempo debajo, siempre era él.
Era consciente de respirar y respirar bien para poder bailar, para aguantar bailando, para seguir un ritmo, para moverme junto con el aire que también hacía una danza con mis pulmones. Fui consciente de no respirar, cuando por desesperación respiré agua debajo de la alberca y me tuvo algunos días con agua en los pulmones, y a mis papás preocupados.
Fui consciente de respirar cuando estaba nerviosa, porque cambiaba, porque la respiración marcha al ritmo de las emociones.
Fui consciente de respirar cuando mi papá dejó de hacerlo, y el mundo y lo que yo esperaba de él se volteó patas para arriba, y a partir de ahí, tuve que aprender a respirar distinto, a buscar meditar o llorar como nunca antes, hasta que al sollozo le falta aire.
Fui consciente de lo importante de respirar para besar, para el disfrute, para el placer, para entablar un ritmo, para sentir que respiras igual que el otro.
Fui consciente de respirar tratando de igualar mi respiración acostada al lado de los que amo, viendo inflar sus panzas y tratando de coordinarme, porque leí lo mágico que era estar sincronizados.
Fui consciente de respirar antes de entrar a un escenario, de respirar lo más profundamente, con toda la adrenalina corriendo y después regularlo, dejar que cada palabra tenga su propio aire y lo importante de no correr antes de tomar el suficiente para la siguiente.
Fui consciente de respirar al hacer el amor, de lo increíble que es sentir que pierdes el control por el arrebato y, aún en ese ritmo vertiginoso, tu cuerpo conserva la inteligencia de cambiar el ritmo, de respirar más corto o más profundo, de inventar sonidos con el aire y sentir, más que nunca antes, cómo compartes la misma corriente de oxígeno.
Fui consciente de respirar cuando ya no quise hacerlo porque alguien más no lo hacía, porque dolía cada bocanada que tomaba sin él, porque la ansiedad me estaba carcomiendo y porque me ahogaba con mi propio llanto, porque no estaba segura de poder seguir haciéndolo, de querer seguir haciéndolo.
Fui consciente de respirar cuando aún sin quererlo, tomaba bocanadas en el bosque para recordarme el privilegio, y lloraba mientras corría y necesitaba incluso más aire, y lloraba mientras cantaba y necesitaba más aire y sacaba toda mi rabia mientras bailaba y necesitaba más y más y más aire.
Fui consciente de respirar cuando empecé a perder peso, como queriendo que el lugar que ocupaba en el mundo fuera más y más y más pequeño.
Fui consciente de respirar cuando me di cuenta que necesitaba más aire que en toda mi vida, cuando por 5 segundos en la regadera, sentí que si seguía así iba a dejar de hacerlo y me aferré a la vida aunque doliera.
Y seguí respirando y sigo respirando y agradezco cada respiro de las risas de los que más amo, y la posibilidad de moverme, de llenar mis pulmones, de sentir ansiedad, dolor y vacío y seguir respirando.
Y fui consciente de respirar cuando en el mundo empezaron a caer caras desconocidas de un momento a otro, como una serie de naipes acomodados para el derrumbe, sin nadie que pueda detenerlos. Y estoy respirando como muchos otros no y no quiero pasar un día sin acordarme de la fortuna, de la mecánica más sencilla que hace posible todo lo demás.
Anonymous
I’ve always wanted to pursue the practice of meditation. I always knew about its benefits, but I never could get around to it. And when the COVID-19 pandemic started, and the whole world had to enter quarantine, I started to have much more anxiety. Everything seemed so wrong, well it was, and I just didn’t know what to do. And then I realized that people were risking their lives to fight this disease, and I realized that my sacrifices were trivial compared to theirs.
I started to feel remorse for this and that just added onto the stress. But then an idea formed in my head. I knew that I finally had to start meditating. And the main process that meditation is focused on is breathing. So really, breathing was kind of my savior, and that’s when I most appreciated breathing in my life.
Before this pandemic started, we as a society didn’t really notice our breathing. It was just a part of our life. But now that our breathing is being taken away from a lot of us, we are really appreciating it while we have it. Breathing is essential to life, so I hope that when this is all over, we can really appreciate it.
Anonymous
Beth Schroeder
Location: New Hope, PA
About: Since I picked up her photo at her funeral, wanted to draw it. The prompt on Day 24 (1000 words) gave me an opportunity.
Age: 41
Christina Warriner
Location: New Hampshire
About: I am a former runner who is new to practicing meditation, a political organizer and activist, and a deeply concerned human being. This entry is inspired by all these identities.
Age: 25
I cannot recall the first time I noticed my breath. Was it while playing kickball during recess in a sweaty red t-shirt and velcro sneakers? Or, was it when I couldn't perform my first aria without gasping for air between each verse? Whenever it was, its unsteadiness signified a challenge that demanded my attention.
My current challenge: recognizing the time it takes for me to regulate my breath once I’ve noticed it’s been disrupted.
Sprint! Now how do I return to a place of comfort in a gentle jog?
Worry! What affirmations can I inhale to bring me back to a place of safety?
Excite! Can I memorize the rhythmic pattern of my breath and revisit it when I need to remember what joy feels like?
Cry! Can I return to my body by exhaling the pain I’m holding in my chest?
When we lose control of our breath we may need help restoring its fullness and balance. Those who guide us back to our breath, through medicine, movement, or meditation, are our modern-day saviors. I am grateful to all those who are working toward the collective restoration of our breath. A very special thank you to all those who tend to patients with respiratory illnesses caused by the COVID-19 pandemic, who assert the right to breath and life for black and brown folks plagued by the pandemic of racism in America, and who fight for clean air and our planet’s wellness. May they heal us and may they teach us to inhale deeply as one.
Diana Matthews
Location: Brooklyn, NY
About: I'm Diana and I've been journalling ever since I was 10 years old. During the pandemic, I've been thinking a lot about breathing and how very simple yet essential it is, a through-line that connects all of us. One morning, I was in bed listening to my husband breathe peacefully while he slept – that's where this poem was born.
Age: 29
How good it is to hear someone breathe
The slow rise and the steady fall
To watch their stomach and chest
Support the framework of life
How good it is to hear someone breathe
The little catches, rattles and scratches
Textured and nuanced like a vinyl record
Where the imperfections are a part of the experience
A part of the music itself
How good it is to hear someone breathe
Beside you in the dark
You may be awake
But they’re deep in dreamland
Their expansive waves tell you so
And you long to swim in those waters with them
How good it is to hear someone breathe
And appreciate
Maybe just this once
That all we are
And all we'll ever be
Is the slow rise and the steady fall
Eileen Lynch
Location: Chicago, IL
Dragonflies
The doorway into thanks is not a door but a meadow
Dizzy with tall grass swaying in the heat of another
Ninety degree day on the prairie.
I enter the doorway in pigeon pose
My teacher praying from her mat
Magda collapsed over her knees
Val behind white boulders
All present
To a seam of light opening
Between cotton balled clouds
Unseparated by houses or people or maybe one man walking by with his red dog
We practice the pigeon
Hips releasing
Stillness
Breathing out the hard day, the sneaking virus
“I’ve never seen so many dragonflies”
My teacher points to ten of them circling my head
Black laced winged and graceful
She grabs her book of signs and reads
“Dragonflies signify change, unavoidable change”
Queen Anne’s lace releases the smell of childhood
Scabby knees stained green
Painted red with mercurochrome by Mrs. Lonergan down the block
She floats behind a farther cloud
The Sunday school nun called Heaven
A quorum of butterflies pray over my head
I relax into my mat
In corpse pose
I don’t want to die
But if I do
Can I be surrounded by sky?
Cheered on by bird song
And the smiles of my friends who gather
Faithfully to practice
This has all been practice
Sarah Jane Weill
Location: Vermont
About: These entries are two of the proudest that I've written during these last 100 days. I'm a writer but writing during the pandemic hasn't always been easy. Working on all of my Isolation Journal entries has kept me creating and kept me afloat.
Age: 23
Notes on a Life Spent Breathing
Today and every day, I’m grateful to breathe.
I was born a little too close to breathlessness, a tumor lodged in my mouth. The tumor broke through my hard palate, expanding up into my nasal cavity. When I opened my mouth, you could see it back there, looming. My cry was muffled. If left to grow, the lemon-sized tumor inside my grapefruit-sized head would have suffocated me.
Do doctors always compare tumors to fruit?
My tumor was comprised of excess body cells: a clump of out-of-place teeth and hair and fingernails. A teratoma. I was six days old when the doctors cut it out of me. The operation lasted most of the day. A neurosurgeon was on call in case the tumor had pierced the dura mater around my brain. After twenty minutes, he came into the waiting room to tell my family he was no longer needed. The surgery continued until the tumor was excised. Afterwards I slept in one of those incubators, air moving in and out of my lungs.
To accommodate the heart, a person’s right lung is always larger than the left.
Picture a house built around a boulder. The rooms, the hallways, are livable and passable, but they aren’t quite right. The tumor was a boulder inside my head. It left my airways wonky. My breathing, among other daily needs, was impacted. For years, I was a mouth breather because I couldn’t direct air in and out of my nose. I was a chronic snorer. Breathing became herculean whenever I got colds. There was a slight whistle to certain words coming out of my mouth. When I first started playing field hockey in high school, my breathing was too shallow; I would get dizzy and nauseous during JV practice and games. Even now, I have to concentrate when I really want to breathe deep.
Deep breathing is a skill I’m learning in yoga.
To fix all these problems of air and speech (among ones of pain and eating and discomfort) I had surgery after surgery after surgery. So far, I’ve had eleven reconstructive surgeries. More are coming up. One by one, my structural problems have been fixed. I now breathe with my lips sealed. I don’t snore anymore. My speech is clearer. When I go for runs, I can tap into a calm, evenly paced breath within the first mile. Yes, things are easier, but they aren’t perfect. The fixes haven’t been instant or simple. There was no magic wand that tapped my head, undoing the damage painlessly. In October 2018, I woke up from surgery with my jaws wired shut, my nose clogged with blood, and I panicked. I was struggling to inhale.
When you struggle to breathe you panic and then you struggle more and then you panic more and on and on and on.
I’m grateful to the doctors that fixed me throughout the years. I’m grateful to breathe always but especially now, as a respiratory virus ravages the globe. As people are hooked up to ventilators. As people are dying with only a foreign, gloved hand to hold. Every day I think about all those patients because I know what it’s like to stare up at that cracked white ceiling, into those bars of fluorescent light, and direct the whole of my focus on the single task of breathing.
Breathing is a task we forget about until we don’t.